


Quod Erat Demonstrandum

by Skud



Series: Hypothesis [3]
Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Asexual Character, Bruises, Community: kink_bingo, D/s, Kink, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-09
Updated: 2010-06-09
Packaged: 2017-10-10 00:34:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/93318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skud/pseuds/Skud
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes and Watson return to Baker Street after a case, battered and bruised.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quod Erat Demonstrandum

**Author's Note:**

> For the Kink Bingo "bites/bruises" square. Originally posted [on Dreamwidth](http://damned-colonial.dreamwidth.org/489186.html).

It was after three o'clock in the morning when the hansom deposited Holmes and Watson outside 221B Baker Street and they dragged themselves wearily upstairs to their flat. Watson hurt all over. His clothes were a mess, and his leg ached. Holmes was no better off: when Watson turned up the gas-light he could see the scrapes on Holmes's cheekbone, and when Holmes took his coat off he held his arm stiffly, wincing as the fabric came away. There was blood on his shirt; the ferryman's knife must have found its mark.

"Let me see that," said Watson.

Holmes looked for a moment as if he was going to protest, then relented. "Very well, mother hen," he said, pulled his shirt off over his head, and sat down.

Holmes, shirtless, was a sight to behold -- pale skin mottled by the early shadows of bruises -- but Watson pushed aside the inappropriate thoughts that sprung unbidden to his mind, and fetched his medical bag. _Later._ His first priority was to examine Holmes's injuries. The cut on his arm was not deep, thank God. "I don't think it needs stitches," Watson said, dabbing at it gently with iodine. "Raise your arm." He bandaged it in silence, and let Holmes lower his arm again when he was done.

As for the bruising, it was not so bad. Holmes had not been holding himself stiffly enough to suggest broken ribs, and a quick examination confirmed it. There was nothing else medical to be done, save time and rest. Watson found that he was standing with his hand pressed against Holmes's chest, just below his heart, his fingers brushing across the damaged flesh, feeling the slight swelling and heat beneath the skin. Tomorrow Holmes would be black and blue. But tonight...

"Holmes," he said, and Holmes looked up at him. "Tell me -- tell me what you want me to do."

Holmes put his hand over Watson's and held it there for a long moment. A thousand thoughts flitted through Watson's mind, foremost among them that Holmes would take his hand and push it downward, press it against the front of his trousers, urge Watson to bring him off. He had been waiting for something like that all day. Or perhaps Holmes would want to be sucked. Watson would press his lips against Holmes's battered chest, and trail his tongue across Holmes's flat belly before taking him in his mouth. It had been a long time since he had done that, but the thought of it made his own prick stir with interest.

"Go to bed," said Holmes.

"What?"

"My dear Doctor, you are almost dead on your feet, and I am hardly better. Neither of us would be the slightest use to the other in this state."

Watson tried to protest, but was overtaken by a yawn. He turned his head to hide it, and turned back to find Holmes yawning in turn. "I was going to say I wasn't tired," Watson said, ruefully.

"Tomorrow," said Holmes, and drew Watson's hand away from his chest. "Sleep soundly."

Watson dropped his hand by his side, disappointed. "You too, old chap," he said.

He slept as if he had been bewitched, barely taking the time to undress before crawling between the sheets and falling asleep so soundly that neither dawn nor the sounds of traffic in the street outside woke him. The sun was high and his room full of light when he rolled over and found himself awake. He yawned and stretched, then blinked to bring the room into focus.

Holmes was standing in the doorway.

Watson sat up quickly. To the best of his knowledge, Holmes had never ventured up to his room before, yet here he was, leaning against the door jamb, his dressing gown hanging open over his bare chest, where the livid marks of yesterday's violence stood out darkly against his white flesh. Watson couldn't be sure, but it seemed that Holmes had been standing there for a little while at least.

"Good morning," said Holmes. "Don't get up."

"Good morning," replied Watson. His mouth was dry. There was a glass of water on the stand beside the bed, but he didn't reach for it. Instead, keeping his voice light, he said, "Care to join me?"

Holmes shook his head almost imperceptibly, and said, "I prefer the view from here. Yesterday morning," he continued in a measured conversational tone, "I put a proposition before you, to which you assented. You would have acted on it at once had I not reminded you of the exposure of our situation." He fixed Watson with a steady, penetrating look that had caused any number of criminals to confess before now. "I should like to put the same proposition to you again, now."

Watson nodded, not trusting himself to speak. _You would do it right now if I told you to. If I told you to take out your prick and play with it right here in this carriage..._

A nod was enough for Holmes. "Push the covers down and lift your nightshirt," he said.

Watson did so, knowing that his ears were turning red, that his mouth was still dry, that he had not bathed since before yesterday's exertion -- and that he did not care. His member was stiff already -- he had woken halfway hard, and it had come to full attention now -- and the sheets dragged against it as he pushed them down. When he pulled up his nightshirt around his waist, he felt the cool air on his flesh, but he did not look down. Instead, he kept his eyes directed at Holmes.

"Well done. Put your hand on your cock."

It felt strangely familiar. How many times had Watson imagined Holmes's voice, the iron tone of his command, while he took himself in hand? This was not so very different, save that Holmes himself was standing there, watching. Watson could hardly bear to meet his gaze, and dropped his eyes to Holmes's chest. He kept his hand still, fingers circled loosely around his penis but not moving until Holmes gave the word.

The word, when it came, was a curt, "Go on." Watson began to stroke himself, all the time staring at Holmes's chest, at the dark hair that stood out against his pale skin, at the fall of the dressing-gown's lapel, at the faint glimpse of a pink nipple, and most of all at the outline of the bruise, half covered by the gown. Watson had had his hand against it last night, felt Holmes's warmth and the beating of his heart, thought of pressing his lips against it... he thought of it again now, thought of tracing the shape of the bruise with his tongue, of his head half-covered by the dressing gown as he sought the parts of it that he could not see. Holmes's hand on the back of his head, stroking his hair. Holmes's voice, above him, murmuring instructions.

He _was_ murmuring instructions. Quiet, compelling words, telling Watson to handle himself just as he did when he was alone, to show Holmes how he liked to bring himself off. Steady, demanding words, asking him if he often handled himself like this, if he always thought of Holmes when he did it, requiring an answer. Insisting.

"Tell me," he said.

"Yes," Watson cried, and spent.

When he opened his eyes for the second time that morning he found Holmes still standing in the doorway -- he had not moved an inch through Watson's whole performance -- with the ghost of a smile on his lips.

"Thank you," said Watson. It seemed the only thing to say, in the circumstances.

"Think nothing of it," replied Holmes. He tied his dressing gown shut before leaving and shutting the door behind him. Watson cleaned himself up with the tail of his nightshirt, and reached for his water glass.


End file.
